Oneirocriticism
by piratesmiley
Summary: P/O. "Three little messes. Three doomed souls."


A/N: This story was inspired by my lovely friend, Tori, who has officially gone through her Fringe-y dream phase. She actually saw some approximation of this, and I've done my best to write it down and do it justice. :)

Also thanks to Zaedah, who let me in on her magical treasure trove of utterly strange and fantastic words. (Oneirocriticism means 'dream interpretation.')

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

Olivia popped a chocolate into her mouth and tossed another to the child sitting on the counter, watching as she stirred a pot of steaming liquid. This child held a striking resemblance to a man she knows very well, but that wasn't important to her at the moment.

The child frowned, brow furrowing familiarly.

"You're going to spoil your dinner," he chastised – his protection of her was adorable – but the kid was four; she threw her head back and laughed.

"Okay, Walt," she appeases. "Why don't you go get your sisters?"

He hopped down, disappearing for a few seconds, and then returned with two older girls.

Two girls who looked just like her.

And that's when she realized. That's when the alarm bells went off, the ones with a harpy screech that quelled any happiness she could have been harboring. The smile slid off of her face._ This is wrong._

Everything changed in an instant as the room grew warmer. Sweat broke out on her skin, trying feebly to protect her from her own mistakes. Every nicety ruptured. The world should be disgusted with her.

And what shocked her most was that there were _three_ of them. Three, looking up at her, wide eyes, pouting lips, soft cheeks. Three little messes. Three doomed souls. Not that she didn't think she would end up with _one, _maybe two, not that she didn't want them terribly. But three just _blew her mind_. How could she do that to them? How could she subject three children to _this_?

As she's watching them, half-horrified, half-delighted, a familiar hand slid into the back pocket of the jeans she just realized she was wearing. The other hand was attached to an arm that wrapped around her in comfort. Lips kissed her neck.

Olivia's a smart girl; she knew when she was awake and when she was asleep. This had to be a dream, and the nature of her dreams of late told her exactly who those marvelous hands belonged to.

Their lives moved along at their second-by-second pace, but Olivia's mind was racing, her heart constricting, her muscles failing to hold her up anymore.

--

She jerked up, gasping.

The darkness relieved her, purified her, opened her up and let her fears escape like smoke. Her precious dream had been shattered, and all that was left were the false memories. A depression spiral. _Fantastic._

The man with the loving hands and lips stirred in her bed; his eyes flickered open to catch her terror. He sat up too, but she didn't want him to. She didn't want to have to explain.

He wrapped his arms around her, just like he had before. He kissed her neck, _again_. Whispers against her skin bring a "what's wrong?" into existence in the form of his voice. When she didn't answer, he let go of her, drowsily on edge.

"Liv…"

"It's nothing. I just had a strange dream." She tried desperately to shake everything off, but the trace amounts of fear still deposited in her eyes were enough to make him keep pushing.

Warily, with disdain, Peter approaches the forbidden subject. "Is this Pattern-related?"

She didn't know how to answer. "Uh … no? I don't know. It wasn't alarming in an _apocalyptic_ sense, but…"

"Still enough to freak you out – I get it," he finished, lying back down. She followed a moment later, trying to settle herself.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He added, voice lower.

"No."

He gasped a little laugh. "Okay." But he can't resist. "Are you sure?"

She sighed. "There were _three_ of them," she muttered.

He turned his head to look at her, eyebrows raised.

"It wasn't so much that I was afraid of them, I was just afraid of the fact that they had to live in this world. And I was mad because it was my fault that they had to be here." Her voice, by the end, had dropped down to a whisper.

He tried to understand, but failed.

"Three. I had three children," she clarified. She gave him a look and added, "The boy's name was Walt." When that sunk in, when everything clicked into place, he started to panic.

"Oh my _God,_" he breathed.

Now _she_ was confused. "What?"

"Well, that's it, then! You're pregnant! You have to be."

She laughed. He didn't.

"I'm not pregnant, Peter."

"But—"

"I'm not. Relax." She chuckled again.

He blew out a sigh, but to Olivia it didn't sound like relief, not quite.

"You know, if you were pregnant—"

"I'm _not_ pregnant."

"I'm just saying! If you were, I don't think it would be the end of the world."

She smiled, and it erupted into a laugh, knowing it probably would be. "Okay."

"I'd be happy, if you were." He wanted that absolutely clear. Her laughter settled back into a smile, but this one was more awed and inherently more comfortable. God, she reminded him so much of the stars: absolutely untouchable, with infinite mysteries, impossibly beautiful, expansive, quiet.

She leaned in and he met her halfway.


End file.
